


Friendly Fire Does Hurt

by Ponaco



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Silly, mustache death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8696107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponaco/pseuds/Ponaco
Summary: During the heat of battle Dorian suffers a loss too horrible to speak its name...his mustache.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I make no excuses for this :0)

It was a mistake; a horrible, irreversible, undeniable mistake. Later he would blame it on the heat of battle. He wasn’t a trained warrior, quite the opposite in fact. The Circle didn’t exactly encourage displays of offensive magic and the idea of hurting other people never did sit well in his chest. Sitting out the fight was no longer an option. The Inquisition required more of him than he ever could imagine and leading the charge into battle was one of those demands. His sudden push into the fight did not, unfortunately, suddenly make him a seasoned and impressive warrior mage. The danger and chaos of the battlefield more often than not, made him lash out in the one way he knew how; searing fireballs and massive walls of flame that held their opponents at bay while the actual warriors finished them off. It was only a matter of time before someone got caught in the crossfire. 

“Dorian!” 

He should have recognized the sharp stab of terror as the Tevinter Mage’s particular brand of magic. He had seen the ghastly purple skull rise above the battlefield enough times to know the slight electric charge that filled the air before the horror settled in. He should have recognized it. Instead he let it sit heavy on his heart in one terrible instant and lashed out with a rush of fire that crackled and hissed from his staff in a blast of heat. He watched the fire roll across the air and collide with the perpetrator of terror.

He raced across the still-burning grassland towards the prone mage, nearly losing his own staff in the process. Rawley dropped to Dorian’s side, frantically patting out the flames that blackened the pristine white of his robes. He leaned over and lifted Dorian’s head from the ground, his heart giving a sharp jump in his chest at the singed remains of a once-proud mustache. He took in a sharp breath, forgetting for a moment that a battle still raged around them, that Dorian had yet to open his eyes. One persistent and terrible thought shouted down all else; when Dorian woke up he was going to kill him.

“Ugh…what happened?”

The pained groan pulled him from his increasingly violent imagining of his own demise. A brief glimmer of hope fluttered in his chest. Dorian hadn’t seen. He could make up a story and he would have no other choice but to believe. What harm could one little lie do? He could place the blame on a Venatori mage. Chances are they would all be dead by the end of the battle anyway and the truth would die with them.

“I shot a fireball. I didn’t see you. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” Rawley blurted out the truth before his frantic thoughts could settle on a lie and wondered, not for the first time how he ever managed to make it this far in life while being so incompetent. 

He took in a quick breath as Dorian’s eyes fluttered open and the corner of his mouth tugged up at the corner beneath the tragic remains of his mustache. “Takes more than…a fireball to keep me down,” Dorian said, wincing when he attempted to sit up. “Did we win?”

Rawley glanced up at the fight around them. The remaining fire, unattended, burned to cinders. The Iron Bull gleefully chased a pair of fleeing Venatori up towards the small ridge to the east, a long gash red and weeping down the wide expanse of his shoulders, but otherwise no worse for wear. Inquisition archers and a sweaty, scowling Varric kept any remaining enemy forces at bay. The fight seemed won. A scurrying, ashen-faced healer in robes of green and gold scampered across the field towards them, her nose turned up at the carnage around her feet.

“I’ll take things from here, Lord Inquisitor,” she assured him, already assessing the situation with keen eyes. 

Rawley stood up to give her room, taking a step back as another healer joined her. The two hoisted Dorian to his feet amid his insistence that he was in fact perfectly capable of walking on his own. The squiggling feeling of dread twisted in his stomach once more. There were only a few precious moments left in which Dorian could remain blissfully unaware of what he had truly lost on the battlefield. He had to do something. The damage could not be undone, but he could distract from it. If anything he could do that.  
The last of their enemy hunted down and the debriefing complete Rawley sat in his tent straight-razor at the ready. He had no real attachment to his hair or the messy beard covering his face, but both had to go. The man staring back at him from the small mirror was someone he hadn’t seen in years; a young circle mage with fear ever-present in his eyes. The closely cropped hair, shaved nearly to the scalp, a necessary precaution according to more than one of the older enchanters. He squared his shoulders and flipped his hood over his head, determined to make the most sincere apology of his life. Some of his resolve melted away as he stood in front of Dorian’s tent. He took a deep breath and called out.

“Dorian? Are you still awake?”

The flutter of the tent flap was his only response. Rawley sighed and decided to try again in the morning.

“You may enter.”

He stopped mid-stride at the dramatic response from inside the tent. The guilt squirming in his stomach once more he slowly pulled back the tent flap. A single lantern illuminated the small tent, throwing sharp shadows to the corners like the wings of a raven. Dorian sat atop a bedroll, wrapped in blankets with a large hood draped over his head, hiding his face from view. 

“I…I wanted to make sure you were all right,” Rawley said, attempting to clear his throat of the persistent lump that lodged itself in his windpipe.

Dorian let out a sigh and wrapped one of the blankets tighter around him. “As all right as one can be when they have lost a piece of themselves.”

The squiggle of guilt unraveled in Rawley’s stomach at the increasingly dramatic and ridiculous display in front of him. “You know, I’m not sure if anyone has told you this, but hair does in fact grow back,” he said, attempting and failing to hide the tiniest hint of a smile.

Dorian snapped around to face him, his hand resting over his heart in shock. “That is hardly the point,” he hissed. “I’m in mourning.”

Rawley cautiously sat down beside him, unable to keep from staring. He reached a hand out, slow and deliberate as though Dorian were a wild animal. His thumb traced along the space above his lip and up along the sharp line of his cheekbone. Dorian’s mouth dropped into a deep pout, his eyes free of their usual darkened lines.

“Handsome as ever,” Rawley said quietly. “But I am sorry I burned you. I’ll be more careful next time. I promise.”

“My handsomeness was never at question,” Dorian replied with a huff. “And…” he trailed off, his eyes wide as he pulled Rawley’s hood from his head. “Vishante kaffas! What have you done to your hair?” 

Rawley offered a sheepish smile as Dorian’s hands passed frantically over his head, as though the mage thought it might be some sort of illusion. “Well, I…I knew you’d be upset about your mustache and I can’t undo that, but I thought…I don’t know, I’d give people something else to talk about so maybe no one would notice until you grew another one.”

His face burned red with embarrassment as the words tumbled from his mouth. Dorian’s hands cupped the sides of his face and pulled him forward until their foreheads touched. Their lips touched next, a shy, chaste kiss that ended before it barely began. 

“Your logic is a thing of beauty, Amatus,” Dorian said, lifting his chin to kiss Rawley between the eyes. “But you look all of fifteen with that ridiculous haircut.”

“Seen yourself lately?” Rawley chuckled, not surprised at the smack to his shoulder. “Well, I guess we’ll have to stay hidden until we regain our manly façades.”

Dorian snorted a laugh and leaned in for a kiss, far less chaste than its predecessor. “Now, that is an excellent idea,” he murmured, draping his blanket around Rawley’s shoulders to pull him close.


End file.
